Carving A Path
by PerpetuallyDisappointed
Summary: In which a girl with no memory is rescued from a certain death on the banks of a river on the edge of a forgotten city. Her savior-a mysterious old woman of unknown age and origin with dubious intentions. She learns how to survive on the fringes of Middle Earth. She keeps to her tiny settlement and becomes practiced in the ways of best surviving the trials of her new home.
1. Nothing But The Water

The girl drifts down the flowing body of water. Her eyes are shut, limbs limp, and lips tinged with blue. For all appearances, she seems to be dead or at least, barely clinging to life. The heavy mass of dark hair on her head weighs her down further, putting her in danger of going under with too rough of a swell. Her clothing is odd considering her surroundings- dark, clinging, and made of unfamiliar fabric.

Her journey downstream can be followed for a few hours before the current slows further, washing her up on a gently sloping bank. This river is surrounded by the ruins of stone buildings. They may be the haunted remains of a once thriving city. But now, they're deserted and more rubble than whole, standing structures. The land has slowly but surely been reclaiming them, with wildly tangled vines and brambles winding around and pushing through the structures, further emphasizing the air of general decay about the place.

The summer sun beats down on her. It keeps her warm and dries her clothing, but such unprotected exposure cracks her lips and burns at her skin. She's no longer at risk of drowning, but even this far north, heat sickness is a very real danger for the unprepared traveler.

There are footsteps making their way through the abandoned city. A shadow, barely visible, flitting from corner to corner. But then a figure emerges and one might be tempted to be surprised at the nature of the stranger looking down at the barely-breathing young woman given how fleet of foot they were. It's an old woman, hooded and cloaked. She's short and bent, and her only visible features are pale, gnarled hands and scraggly gray hair escaping the cover of her hood.

She bends down and checks the body. She holds a single crooked finger under the nose to check for breath. A palm comes to rest on the brow and then the chest to check the temperature. An eyelid is pried open to reveal a uniquely colored eye- at least for this region- somewhere between grey and a very light brown. Satisfied that her new charge is going to live for now, she sits down, crossing her legs at the ankles and rummages in the folds of her robes. She retrieves a weathered waterskin after a few moments, unstopping it and pries her patient's mouth open. The equivalent of a small sip is allowed to flow into her charge's mouth.

There's enough life in her for instinct to take over and the muscles in a long, mahogany throat work the liquid down. The old woman carefully toes her way down the bank to wet a few rags. The girl can't be moved- not yet, so she'll need some kind of reprieve from the summer heat until she wakes and is able to move. Skein at her hip, wet rags in hand, getting back up the bank is a little more difficult. She's not as young as she once was, after all and time has been a harsh master. Lowering herself gently back down to the girl's side, the crone checks the sun's position in the sky. It's the early afternoon. Where she the tea-taking type, she would have said it was almost time for afternoon tea.

She takes her time, bathing the young woman's skin with the cool, clean river water. She lifts this limb and that, lavishing each inch of richly toned skin with attention, determined to bring her patient back some semblance of health. To allow her to perish so needlessly would be a tragedy and a waste of the Valar's gift of Youth.

The crone works over the girl until the Sun is low in the West, and twilight is encroaching upon the land. The air is cooler and the young lady's temperature is normal. Her full lips are a healthy, berry hue and her breathing is deeper and even. Finally, she sits back to assess her progress. Yes, it wouldn't be long now before those lids fluttered open and there would be an attempt to move.

Ah! The girl's lips part with a soft groan, a single delicate hand flutters aimlessly by her side. She winces as one eye cracks open. At first, her surroundings are blurry. The first thing that comes into sharp relief is the face of the old woman. She works her mouth in alarm, trying to speak. Who is this woman? Where is she? Cool liquid trickles past her lips, coating her abused then unused throat. Water. It's fresh, cool, and sweet. Putting aside how odd it is for water of all things to have a _taste,_ it's probably the most refreshing drink of water she's ever had.

The old woman helps her to sit up, opting to simply stare at her and wait for to speak. What should she even ask her? By all rights, she shouldn't be awake at all. Should she? Her memory is fuzzy but she gets the distinct impression that something about this place and her being there is deeply wrong. So, she settles for staring at the woman right back, observing and analyzing her as best she's able. She's old, make no mistake. Easily old enough to be her grandmother. But she's pretty after a fashion. Lines, yes. But ones born of a lifetime of laughter and genuine smiles. Watery grey eyes, full of patience and compassion. Her hair is grey, but a blue-ish grey, soft-looking. It's a gotten a little scraggly, but you could see where there's a hint of a curl where it may have hung in waves, if not all out ringlets in her youth.

There's a strength in her. It's not obvious at first, but with careful inspection, it's there. Her hands are steady. Her spine is straight, despite the uneven terrain they are resting on. She has a slight tan, decrying a life largely spent out of doors, although given the hood and cloak, she makes some effort to keep out the worst of the Sun's rays.

The girl squares her shoulders. "May I have your name? I believe you saved me." The old woman smiles gently at her. "I have gone by many names, dear Child. But for the last lifetime, I have been known mainly as Idhrenith." That was...different. The young woman doesn't believe she's ever been given such a name. However, it's not coming to her precisely _why_ she should find it peculiar. Now that she puts her mind to it...she's not exactly sure what her own name is. She hedges, unsure of how her query would be received. "I don't suppose...you know me, by any chance?".

Idhrenith pauses, taken aback. Surely, she wasn't suggesting that they were acquainted in any way. To be sure, she drags her long memory. She believes she would recall such a foreign creature in her travels. The heavy, wild, inky coils tumbling down her back, the queer eye color, the earthiness of her skin tone, not to mention she's more of a height with a Man- maybe even a little taller than most. As she suspected, no, she had not. "Do you not know who you are?" That could be potentially problematic. If she had damaged her memory during her sojourn downriver or even before she ended up in the water...there's no telling what else in her mind may be compromised.

The young woman's brows furrowed. "I don't believe I do," she despaired. "There's vague impressions I'm getting. But, what's my name? How'd I end up in the river?". As she put her questions to Idhrenith, her voice rose in pitch with a sense of panic. Idhrenith grasped her shoulders firmly, giving her slightest bit of a shake. "Now, now. Don't fuss. I'm sure your confusion is just the result of your ordeal and will fade with time. But...I will need to call you something in the meantime. Something hopeful. How about...Merenthel? For the joy your company will surely bring an old maid."

The girl puzzled over the name. Then shrugged. If Idhrenith wanted a Merenthel, then Merenthel she would be. For now, anyway.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Woohoo! Welcome all to my first published Tolkienverse fanfic. I haven't written in quite a while, but I was mauled by plot-bunnies and wanted to try my hand at a passable *gasps in horror* GiME fic. One thing I noticed, was that the OC almost always immediately runs into Thorin's Company or a Fellowship member, putting the onus on them to help her. Why? Middle-Earth is a big place full of mysterious happenings and outlandish people. The legendarium is so vast with so much room for things to be added without disturbing a major canon plotline. And, thus our amnesiac *insert eyeroll* protagonist, "Merenthel", finds herself in the care and company of the mysterious, old woman Idhrenith. What could her motives be for dragging a complete stranger off a riverbank and into her home? The goodness of her heart? Maybe. Maybe not. I like interactive writer/reader relationships, so to break the ice, review- tell me what you think so far _and_ **who is your favorite, most underrated character in LotR?**


	2. Stars

Idhrenith and Merethel are taking refuge in what appears to be the largest, most well-preserved building in the settlement. The cookfire is crackling, keeping their stew simmering away and chasing the hint of a nightly chill away. Idhrenith contemplates her new companion. She's unfamiliar, with odd speech, peculiar mannerisms, and coverings the likes of which she's never seen. She's seemly, at the very least, putting her exoticism aside. For all she had claimed hunger, instead of keeping her eyes on the rather tasty smelling (if Idhrenith didn't say so herself) contents of the pot, her dusky face is turned upwards to the sky, pupils blown wide in apparent wonder.

"Little Lady, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you'd never've seen the sky before." The crone comments drily. Merethel's had snaps back towards the earth. "I have!", she retorts, a blush coloring her cheeks but faintly. "I just...the moon is bigger. Like it's closer. So close I could touch it. And the stars! Lord in Heaven, the _stars_!". Her voice is exultant, no more than a breathless whisper, as she stretches an elegant hand skyward, as if to really attempt contact with the twinkling lights set against the velvety darkness of night. Idhrenith's eyes soften marginally. She lets out a sigh and admits, "Aye. The majesty of Varda's work is a blessing to behold on a clear night."

Merethel's brows furrow ever so slightly. "Varda?" The confusion tangled up in the word causes Idhrenith to arch a brow. Idhrenith doesn't respond right away. She takes the time to serve out two portions of stew, giving her young charge the larger helping. "Thank you, ma'am." The younger of the pair, is grateful for the sustenance and remembers her manners. As Merethel eats, digging into her supper with no small amount of gusto, Idhrenith rubs her gnarled hands together and tells the tale of Arda's creation, the best way she knows how.

About halfway through, the food is finished and Merethel is simply gazing into the fire, her left ear tilted forward across the fire, as if in attempt to catch every inflection, strain, and hesitation in her words. Briefly, Idhrenith wonders if her companion might be slightly hard of hearing on that side. As she's detailing Melkor's insubordination, there's a flash of something across the girl's face- too obscure and too quick to put a finger on. But, it's clear the story is wringing a little emotion out of the girl. Her eyes are shut now, and her body tense. She decides to stop just before the creation of the Elves. No need to overwhelm the child, right?

Idhrenith falls silent, and she observes as Merethel relaxes. Her eyes open as there looks like there might be a tinge of red to the whites, like her eyes had been watering slightly, although now they were perfectly dry. She releases a shaky breath. It's a handful of moments before she speaks. "That was beautiful...and infuriating. _Why_ would you do that? I don't think I've ever been a sliver that spiteful and petulant." She complains. It's plain that she's referring to the Dark Vala. The old woman shrugs. "Who knows why people, let alone the Valar or Ainur or Eru himself do anything?".

The look on Merethel's face is a mix of frustration and concession- most amusing to witness. "You have a point. But, you...I can ask. Why'd you bother saving me? Now you'll have to work out how keep me alive." Idhrenith snorts. If this young one thinks she's going to doing all the giving and no taking, she has a storm headed her way. "I saved you because it was the right thing to do. And I'll not be keeping you alive. You will. You'll just be doing it with some help."

The girl has a long way to go. Her eyes are soft. Her body is softer. Her hands are softer still. For all her simple speech and odd bearing, she has the countenance of someone who's never done a hard day's work in her life. She's more suited to hearth and home and nobility's comforts than the hunting, and fishing, and gathering that would be required of her out here, leagues away from anywhere worth being. Idhrenith would see her through to self-sufficiency and then send her on her way. But if she takes her time doing so to keep her young companion as long as is realistic, who's to stop her?


End file.
